Lest We Forget
by Jessie Blackwood
Summary: Another Remembrance Day offering, although a little late this year. Remembrance day doesn't go according to plan for John, and this is the second year it happens... Have alterered this story to in-progress because there is likely going to be a chapter every year at this time. Additional warning for adult language in this one.
1. Lest We Forget

**Sherlock is owned by the BBC, Messrs Moffat and Gatiss. I don't own the characters, even though the idea is mine. Any resemblance to any persons either living or dead is purely coincidental and unintended.**

_This is for all the soldiers I have known, admired and loved, for those who have passed, those who are retired and those still serving, in particular Dudley (2 Commando, WW2, one of the originals, __ sadly now passed, __father of my best mate), Tony (Dudley's son and brother of my best mate, retired), Phil (currently in the TAs and still serving), Steve (ex-para, retired), and Frank (SAS retired) in the UK and Mike (Tank Sergeant) in the US. Thank you for your dedication, guys. Heroes all._

_Sherlock tries to surprise John on the one day he wants some privacy. Trouble is, nothing is ever that simple. John doesn't want to be surprised, and he has no intention of allowing anything to get in the way of his promise. When Mycroft also gets involved, John has had enough._

**Lest We Forget **

It was a bright day for November, crisp and clear, sun shining, blue sky overhead sporting white fluffy clouds. John Watson gazed at his reflection in the mirror as he was shaving and sighed. Five years. Five years since Afghanistan. Five years since his life had turned upside down. He scowled at himself and exited the bathroom. Sherlock was on the couch again, curled up facing away from him. John went into the kitchen and found himself some breakfast. He was careful to say nothing, not one word, to Sherlock. He had somewhere to be this morning and nothing was going to stop him. He knew the man had registered his presence but he neither moved nor said anything. John didn't encourage either.

He managed to return to his room without so much as a word to or from Sherlock and he was beginning to think he might just get away with this. He had managed it every year since being discharged, but since this was the year that Sherlock had cleared his name, saved his friends and returned with a flourish, John was not sure what would happen. He gazed at himself in the mirror again as he was adjusting his tie, then flicked an imaginary speck of dust off his lapel. He looked...haggard. Old. He allowed himself a grim laugh. It didn't actually matter, though, did it? He wasn't out to pull a bird today.

Shrugging on an uncharacteristically sober and hardly-worn black wool overcoat over his equally sober and hardly-worn charcoal-grey suit, he found he couldn't decide whether to take his cane with him or not. Pride warred with the possibility of being jostled. There was the added value that people took a little more care when they saw his limp. Didn't always work but he figured that with all the standing around he was about to do, not to mention the walking, he might need it anyway. He sighed, then picked it from its hiding place behind the door. Checked his watch... 08.30. Okay so far. He was as ready as he ever would be. He fingered the hard coldness of the metal in his pocket. Couldn't decide about that either. In the end, he left it in his pocket and went quietly out of his room and down the stairs...to find Sherlock waiting for him, fully clothed, scarf around his neck and that Bellstaff coat hanging on his lean frame with more style than anyone should be allowed, especially at that time in the morning.

"And where do you think you're going?" John demanded.

"Out," came the succinct reply.

"Where?"

"With you."

"No, you're not. Not today, Sherlock. I have an appointment."

"John, I know what today is."

"Then you'll know why you can't come with me."

"I also know that you'll probably need the distraction eventually, or at the very least, you'll need someone to talk to. You know how impossibly boring these things get..."

"Fine!" John could probably ditch him later. "One thing. Promise me one thing, Sherlock. When the time comes, just stay silent, okay? Not one word, you got that?" Sherlock's eyes met his and he nodded. "Fine, then." Damn, this was going wrong. He had wanted to be alone for this.

Two steps out of the door and down the road and Sherlock held his hand out for a cab just as a sleek black car pulled up alongside the curb next to them.

"Oh, God, noooo," John groaned. Could this day get any worse? This was precisely what he had wanted to avoid. He wanted a quiet day, to himself.

"Get in," Anthea said and waited, texting madly. When they didn't immediately avail themselves of the transport, two large men in dark suits got out and menaced them as only large men in dark suits can without drawing too much attention to themselves on a quiet street in London on a Sunday. Sherlock glanced at John with an unreadable expression and then slid inside.

"Great. I can't even do this without permission!" John exploded. "One day of the fucking year, that's all I ask. One bloody day..." he glared out the window as they drove off into the morning London traffic, seething quietly.

When the car pulled off the road behind Whitehall and into a courtyard in the centre of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, John's face registered shock. They were only a street away from the seat of power itself. The car pulled up and the men in front jumped out and opened the doors. John and Sherlock got out, looking around them as the car drove off again.

"What the hell are we doing here?" John asked nobody in particular. Nobody answered so it was probably just as well.

"Follow me, gentlemen," Anthea said and set off toward the entrance. She was waved through without so much as a word and the two men followed in her wake, ushered through the doors and up staircases, a rabbit warren that John knew he probably wouldn't find his way out of without help. Finally she opened a door and held it for them. Sherlock swept through and smiled genially at his brother, Mycroft, who returned the gesture. That was surreal. Normally nothing passed between the brothers apart from chilly stares and snide remarks. Today, though, they seemed in perfect accord about something.

"John," Mycroft said warmly, extending a hand. John glared and ignored the offered hand. "Ah, well, you're probably wondering what all this is about."

"Are you going to tell me?"

"All in good time, John, all in good time. Now, there's someone waiting for you," he said and turned toward another door that opened into an airy room decorated with plenty of 19th century portraits in heavily gilded frames, pieces of elegant antique furniture lining the walls. Mycroft ushered both men in, John first, Sherlock following, and followed in after them. As they entered a shout hailed them.

"Christ, lads, it's the Butcher!" John frowned and squinted against the light coming through the tall windows. Sherlock frowned at the title and glanced at Mycroft, who smiled vaguely.

"Madoc?" John could not believe his eyes. Jack Madoc stood there, large as life in his dress uniform, a look of glee on his face nevertheless.

"Christ, Doc! What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Wish I knew, Jack." He glanced at Mycroft. "Ours not to reason why, eh?"

"Nice tay see ye, Butch! You're lookin' good." Findlay Murray grinned, his Glaswegian brogue as familiar as the last time John had seen him, in the back of a helicopter being repatriated back home. He had been one of the lucky ones. He had only lost his foot.

"Doc, great to see you!"

"Hi, Doc, remember me?" the two younger men who jostled forward, grins plastered on their beardless faces, thrust out sun-browned hands to be shaken.

"Take it easy, fellas! Give the man some breathing room." Alex Mitchinson blocked his two younger compatriots with his bulk and thrust out a hand. "Good to see you, doc. How are you?" John realised he had missed Mitch's easy smile, his calm and friendly demeanor.

"Not bad. You?" John shook hands with them all and was roughly pulled into a bear hug by Madoc. They exchanged pleasantries for a while until John realised that Sherlock was standing behind him and sighed. "Lads, meet Sherlock Holmes. The world's only consulting detective. Sherlock, Lieutenants Findlay Murray, Tony Black, and Alex Mitchinson. The runt over there is Corporal Josh Sinclair and this Scouse Git is Jack Madoc."

"That's Major Scouse Git to you," he grinned and saluted, then reached to shake Sherlock's hand. "You're not as tall as I thought you were." Madoc was on a level with him, scrutinising him carefully.

"The precaution of a long coat and a small friend..." Sherlock smiled. "I also stand on a box occasionally..." The men laughed. Ice broken, John thought.

"Okay, spill. What are we all doing here?" John fixed Sherlock with a look. "You are entirely too fucking friendly with that brother of yours which leads me to believe you knew about this."

"We'll make a consulting detective out of you yet," Sherlock declared. "Although I should have thought that this was obvious, John. You disappoint me. We're here for the parade, you'll get a much better view from the balcony than from street level. Plus, Mycroft shipped in a few of your comrades to share it with you."

"That's...nice, but tell me he didn't pull half an operational unit off the Afghan patrols just to come say hello to me?"

"Not at all. They're doing me a favour at the same time, rest assured."

"Which is?"

"Time will tell, John. Don't fret. Everything is laid on today. Lunch..."

"Oh, don't!" John snapped. "Do not give me any of your...cryptic comments...today of all days. I am absolutely not staying to lunch." He ignored Sherlock's surprised look and walked to the window to see where they were. Front row seats in the balcony, straight over Whitehall. He leaned on the parapet and breathed deeply. He was on edge. It washed over him suddenly, erasing the partial good mood that had started on finding his compatriots waiting for him. He frowned and lifted his left hand. He was shaking again. Damn it, that bloody tremor was back. He fisted his hand and dug the nails into his palm.

"You okay, John?" Findlay asked quietly. He received a tight smile.

"I'll survive." He looked at the floor. "I had intended to go...you know...this morning... I promised, Fin."

"Aye, I know you did. Can't ye get that stuffed shirt to send us in his car?"

"That stuffed shirt would sell his own grandmother if it was necessary for National Security," John muttered. "I do not want any favours from him."

"Were you planning on meeting with Denise then?"

"I was hoping to. I wouldn't want her to think..." he stalled. Wouldn't want her to think I'd forgotten. That I didn't care any more.

"Call her?"

"I've tried. I keep getting number unobtainable and they won't put a call though reception unless it's from family. Besides, what could I say? I've been unavoidably detained because I've got front row seats for the main event. She should be here, Fin. She has more right than I do." Fin reached out and gripped his shoulder in support.

"You've every right, old son. She'd forgive ye, you know."

"I don't want her to forgive me, Fin, I want to be there..."

"Be where, John?" Sherlock was curious.

"You wouldn't understand," John snapped and stalked off. Sherlock watched him go with a frown. He turned to Fin but the man avoided his eyes and disappeared inside.

At 9.30am they were served coffee and biscuits but John didn't touch any. He was angry. He had specifically wanted to keep this day to himself. He was due at the chapel for 10.30 and although he had no intention of missing his appointment, he knew he probably wouldn't make it now. He had a promise to keep and this year he would break it for the first time in five years. Mycroft caught up with him on the balcony again, staring down the street. The cenotaph was almost directly outside. God knew what security level Mycroft must have to be able to commandeer this room. It was a prime spot for a sniper. John sat down, aware his leg was aching.

"You're under stress, Doctor. Is there a problem?" Mycroft was standing observing him from about ten feet away. "Is this not to your liking?"

"Honestly, no. I have...had...an important appointment I needed to keep. I won't make it now, so frankly it doesn't matter, does it?" he snarled, and forcing himself to his feet, he walked away. Anything to save himself from punching that self-righteous git in the face. If only he could leave but he wouldn't get ten yards without Mycroft's goons coming to escort him back.

"It seems the good doctor doesn't appreciate our kindness, dear brother," Mycroft commented, dryly. Sherlock was leaning on the parapet, glowering into the street. "Don't scowl. You'll upset Her Majesty."

"Fu...!"

"Don't!" he snapped as Sherlock opened his mouth. "I would find out what is bothering Dr Watson if I were you, Sherlock. He looks under stress..."

**0o0o0o0o0**

"Oh, come on, John, I'm sure you can reschedule. This is important..." Sherlock had come up beside him again on the balcony.

"Oh, and I'm sure I can't. You didn't even ask me, did you? No warning. No "do you have any plans for Sunday?". No, because any time you or that git of a brother of yours arrange something everybody else has to stop what they're doing and fall in with the party line. Well not me. I had an appointment. I'm going to miss it because of this. I promised, Sherlock. I am now going to have to break that promise to someone I care about..."

"Who is she?"

"Never mind..."

"John, how can I understand if you shut me out?"

"What's the matter?" Mycroft had appeared at the sound of raised voices.

"Okay, you want to understand? Right then. You know, today I wanted for me, I wanted privacy. But no, I'm not getting that, am I?" He glared at Mycroft. "You... you never do what your Brother wants. Why today?" Mycroft glanced over, exchanging a glance with Sherlock who was frankly looking worried. Let him! John was seething. It was nice meeting the lads again. Those guys were excellent friends and comrades. But this... John fingered the hard metal in his pocket again and frowned. Then very deliberately, he walked out. Security be damned, he thought.

Mycroft immediately called one of his men to him and gave him discreet orders. "Follow, keep him out of trouble, but allow him to let off a little steam. Keep him from doing any damage, give him a few minutes and then escort him back. Is that clear?"

"Sir." The man left at a jog, another one joining him. Mycroft sighed. Findlay Murray approached with caution and waited politely.

"Yes? What can I do for you... Findlay, wasn't it?"

"Yes, sir. Mr. Holmes, has the doctor gone? Is he alright?"

"No, he hasn't gone, exactly. He needed a little breathing space," Mycroft offered.

"Damn it, I don't know what is wrong with him," Sherlock frowned. "He doesn't make any sense. I knew he was coming here..."

"Excuse me, sir, but..."

"But what?"

"He was nay coming here."

"He wasn't?" Sherlock glanced at Mycroft but his attention was all on Murray.

"No, sir, he was nay. He was heading for Ongar. That's where he always goes."

"Ongar? What happens to be at Ongar?"

"St Martin's Church. It's where a...compatriot of ours is buried."

"And this has to do with today, how?"

"That's Dr Watson's business really. It's for him to tell you."

"Just tell us," Mycroft snapped.

"No," Murray snapped back, much to Mycroft's surprise. All the lads closed ranks on the Holmes brothers then, tight lips being the order of the day.

**0o0o0o0o0**

Watson walked the corridors, aware that he was being followed but that the men did not seem intent on returning him. He reached an outside door, unsure where he was, and stood just outside, breathing the cold clear air. He leaned against a railing and slumped. Only one day, that's all he asked. It wasn't a big ask either, just one single day...

**0o0o0o0o0**

"So why is Ongar so important?" Sherlock pressed. "John said he made a promise."

"He did. To a dying man. Look, I don't want to say more..."

"Tell them, Fin," Madoc said gently. "If John takes exception, he can take it up with me."

Murray glanced up at him and frowned. "You want the responsibility, you tell him. With respect, sir..." Murray added as an afterthought. The two men traded exasperated glances and Madoc took a breath and let it go slowly.

"Dr Watson is not just a doctor, you know," he began. "He didn't just give us our shots and hand out condoms and warn us about STDs. He was a surgeon, you do know that, don't you?" Sherlock opened his mouth, no doubt to make some cutting remark, but Mycroft elbowed him in the ribs. He shut his mouth with a grunt, exchanged a glare with his brother and then refocused on Madoc and simply nodded. "He was one of the people who put us back together when we got damaged," Madoc said, ignoring the altercation. "We nicknamed him the Butcher, traditional name for a medic in the army. Actually he was anything but. John is very good at what he does but the name stuck anyway. No matter how brilliant he is though, sometimes even he can't work miracles."

"Believe me, I was one of the medical orderlies," Murray added. "I've seen him at work. He's a damn fine surgeon, but Madoc is right. He can only do so much at the end of the day."

"He lost someone?" Sherlock suggested. Murray grimaced and nodded.

"We went out on a nighttime evac, six men down. One of them turned out to be one of John's friends from school. The lad was six hours in theatre and John was the attending surgeon. Bill Graham was his name."

"He died?"

"John tried everything he knew. I watched him, I know how long he fought, but Bill died anyway. Flatlined three times, every time John brought him back. In the long run, though, the internal damage was too great."

"That wouldn't sit well with the good doctor," Mycroft murmured.

"It didn't, believe me," Murray said softly. "John made a promise to Bill before he died, though. He told him that he would go see his sister, Denise, and make sure she was okay and he would go every year on Remembrance Sunday, and say a prayer for him. John isn't a religious man but Bill was, and John Watson is an honourable one, so he keeps his promises."

"And I've made him break that promise. I didn't see..."

"John isn't a very demonstrative or communicative man either, sir. I'm not surprised you didn't know," Findlay said.

"I see he's not wearing his gong either," Madoc commented. "Again."

"Gong?" Sherlock asked.

"His medal. Conspicuous Gallantry Cross," Murray said. "Hardly ever wears it. He's always believed he didn't deserve it. I was with him on the mission where he got that. It was when he got shot. You can believe me, he deserves it alright. Wounded, under fire, he still continued to work on the injured men we'd come to evacuate, regardless of his own life or injuries." He sighed heavily. "Denise will forgive him for missing today. She's a lovely lass, just struggles to cope with life. She has good days and bad days, but John knows she loves today. She remembers her brother the hero, it makes her proud..."

"Would she mind coming here, do you think?" Mycroft asked.

"I doubt it, but she never goes anywhere without a carer. You'd need to clear it with them."

Thoughtful, Mycroft retreated and drew Anthea to him, conversing in low tones that the others could not hear.

**0o0o0o0o0**

After a few minutes, one of Mycroft's men poked his head out of the door and asked politely if John would come back inside.

"You have orders to restrain me if necessary, I suppose." John sounded resigned.

"I personally believe that being reasonable gets you further. Harry Francombe, Doctor Watson." The man offered a hand. John shook it amicably enough. "I'm one of Mr Holmes' chief negotiators. I'm rather more used to hostage situations but I can adapt. So, what will it take to get you to come inside again?"

"You could just ask me."

"Simple enough," Harry grinned. "So, will you come back inside?"

"Not just yet," John replied. "Besides, I thought you weren't supposed to negotiate with the enemy?"

"On the contrary, I am here to effect the best possible outcome," Harry said, cheerfully. "For all concerned parties. In this case, it means keeping everybody happy. Mr Holmes has put his trust in you, you know, allowing you out here."

"He has?"

"Oh yes, otherwise you would have been dragged back immediately. No, it's obvious to me that he trusts you. At least, I know he's had his men follow you, but he hasn't ordered them to restrain you or keep you contained."

"That's kind of him."

"So, what would it take?"

"A fast car...no, maybe a helicopter, it's faster. I want to get to Ongar and keep my promise. That's all I wanted from today."

"Come inside and we'll see what we can do."

**0o0o0o0o0**

Less than half an hour later Sherlock sat down in front of John where Harry had left him while he went to converse with Mycroft. They had pretty much left him to his own devices but Mycroft's men were keeping an eye on him now. John was pretty sure he wouldn't be allowed to run off again.

"Why didn't you tell me you've been decorated?" Sherlock asked gently.

"You make me sound like the sitting room," John replied, attempting humour. It fell disappointingly flat. "I only did what anyone would have done," John defended. "I was just doing my job."

"Above and beyond, John. They don't decorate people for just doing their jobs." John shrugged and leaned back, staring at a crack in the ceiling. "I wouldn't make a big fuss, you know me. But you should wear it. You're an amazing man. Everyone should know just how amazing. Put it on, for me?"

For a moment, John was speechless. "You think I'm amazing? Me?"

"Yes, is that so hard to understand? Anyone who puts up with me on a regular basis has to be amazing." John blinked, then barked a laugh and shook his head in resignation.

"No. Sorry, Sherlock, but no. It's not me. I didn't..."

"You've got it with you though?"

"How did you know?"

"You keep putting your hand in your jacket pocket and stroking something. No double entendre intended. Whatever it is, it's too small to be your gun, it doesn't weigh your jacket down on one side and it isn't visible, it doesn't alter the line of your coat. When you touch it, you get a look of concentration on your face, as if you can't make up your mind what to do. You're conflicted about it."

"Very clever. Who told you anyway? Murray?"

"Yes, but he wouldn't tell us why you were making such a fuss about today. Mycroft insisted so Madoc told us." John sighed.

"Did he tell you about Denise?"

"Yes. Look, I'm sorry, John." Sherlock sounded genuinely contrite. "I've been planning this for months. I wanted you to have a great view of the day, because I knew you did something every year, just not what. I had no idea..."

"You could have asked."

"Wanted to surprise you. That's what friends do, isn't it?"

"Yes, I guess. Look, this is hard for me, Sherlock. It's bloody difficult to try to teach you all the nuances of emotions and how they work. So much is based on playing a situation by ear and not working on logic and pattern and prediction. It's totally the opposite of what you do. Emotions change on a whim. They're unpredictable. On the one hand, people pull surprise parties, on the other hand some folks hate them. On the one hand it is good to ask if someone has something they want to do on a particular day but on the other that can ruin a surprise. Telling you what to do is virtually impossible, because there is so much that is based on...well, available data. It's how you interpret it that matters." John sighed and smiled. "I'm sorry too. I guess I shouldn't be too angry, you did this for me and it's an amazingly nice gesture. Thank you."

"You should wear your medal, John. You deserve it," Sherlock urged.

"Wear it for me, then? And for Bill?" John turned in surprise. Mycroft was shepherding a pretty, dark-haired woman into the room, her brown eyes alight with wonder. A youngish broad-faced man followed her, looking bemused. John shot to his feet and closed the gap.

"Denise...I..."

"Sh, John. It's good to see you. Mr Holmes explained what happened."

"He did?"

"Yes, John," Mycroft interjected. "I took the liberty of informing Miss Graham about your circumstances. After all, you couldn't very well refuse a royal invitation." Mycroft smiled and John nodded.

"They sent a helicopter for me, of all things," Denise was excited. "Mr Holmes cleared it with Ashlands and they sent Sam with me. Are we in time?" John checked his watch.

"Plenty of time. Have you been offered refreshments? Mycroft, something non-alcoholic for Miss Graham, maybe?"

"Tea, coffee, fruit juice?" Mycroft turned on the genial host act and smiled ingratiatingly.

"Tea would be amazing, thank you." Denise turned back to John and then gazed around the room. "This is awesome." She giggled like a fifteen year old and shook her head. "Can't believe that this is real..." She walked across the room to peer down into Whitehall. "Oh my god, look at the view... Bill would have been so proud." She turned back and gripped John's hand. "Thanks for inviting me, John. This is the best way to remember him. Go on, please? Put your medal on, for him?" John frowned.

"I don't know, Denise. I mean...he deserved them more than me."

"He got one, posthumously. Look, I'm wearing it for him. So come on, John, wear it for us. Be proud of what you did. I know you couldn't save him, but it wasn't your fault. You tried your best and after all, you saved so many more. Now, let's be proud for him and stand together?"

John fetched his hand out of his pocket, the silver cross on it's lilac ribbon glistening in his palm. Denise took it gently from him and pinned it carefully to the left breast of John's dark coat. "There," she said, patting it. "Perfect."

The two minute silence was the best John had ever kept. Sherlock remained quiet the whole time. John was in good company, he had kept his promise in a roundabout way and he saw the whole procession from a superb vantage point. Sherlock was mildly surprised when, at the end of the two minute observation, John and his compatriots all silently came to attention and saluted.

"Hammal Chandra," John said softly.

"Dingo McCall," Madoc murmured.

"Bob Barclay," Fin said. "Ben Williams."

With a shock, Sherlock realised they must be reciting the names of their fallen comrades.

"Tom Dennison," Tony added. "Danny Sanderson."

"Grant Fletcher," Alex murmured. "Andy Victor."

"Whisker Pritchard," Josh sighed.

"Bill Graham," John added, looking at Denise, who had tears in her eyes but was smiling proudly.

"Lest we forget," Madoc said, his voice thick with emotion.

"Lest we forget," the rest chorused, and Denise joined in.

"Lest we forget," Sherlock murmured, almost inaudibly. Although he felt sure John had heard, if his sharp glance across at Sherlock meant anything at all. Sherlock broke the gaze first. He suddenly felt as if he were intruding, although John's gaze had been neutral. Sherlock wondered if his name had been on John's lips in those intervening years. He decided he didn't want to know.

When they went back inside, dinner had been brought in for them all. The table had been laid, more seats brought in and the waiters served an amazing Sunday lunch. From the other side of the table, Sherlock watched John surreptitiously, seeing his animated expressions and gestures as he spoke to his mates. He hadn't been this relaxed for months, maybe since Sherlock returned. John looked up and met his eyes. Sherlock froze, uncertain. He felt sure the doctor's expression would change-possibly for the worse-when he clapped eyes on his flatmate and then Sherlock would be alone again.

John found he was really hungry. The food was delicious, the lads were relaxed and everyone was talkative and joking, and even Denise was having a good day. They had all observed their remembrance ritual, something they hadn't done in a long time, although John had kept it privately. It renewed their bond, the shared bond of combat, a bond John had missed along with the war. He was sure he had seen Sherlock mouthing the words as well, as if he wanted to be part of it, part of their group. He had looked...diminished, somehow. Solitary. Sad. John looked up and met Sherlock's eyes. Oddly the man looked almost scared. He raised his eyebrows in an _are you alright_ gesture, subtly twitching his head on one side in emphasis. Sherlock frowned, then brightened, nodded once and smiled a small uncertain smile. John smiled more broadly, a gentle smile loaded with friendship and happiness. Sherlock visibly relaxed with relief. John nodded and pulled his attention back to something Denise had said, ending their silent conversation. He was mildly surprised that Sherlock had managed to pick up on the non-verbal clues there. There was hope for him yet.

Sherlock felt relief wash though him. John wasn't mad with him. He wasn't unhappy. Mycroft was watching him and he quickly schooled his features into a mask again. Too late of course. Mycroft had seen and understood the expressions fleeting across his face.

"Give him time, brother dear," he said gently. "He won't stay mad at you forever."

"He said it would take him time to forgive me, when I came back. He was hurt that I didn't trust him."

"You couldn't. We both know that John is not a good actor. He knows it too. He understands why we didn't trust him but his sense of pride is hurt. As I said, he'll come around. In fact, I think he may just be turning the corner as we speak..." They both looked over toward where John sat joking with Jack and Fin.

"I hope so. I actually do trust him, Mycroft," Sherlock said thoughtfully. He sounded surprised at his own admission. "Just not with acting. Than man cannot lie to save his life..."

"John is an honourable man," Mycroft stated, although whether or not he approved was not revealed in his tone. He couldn't resist a small self-satisfied smile though. There was hope for Sherlock yet.

**Reviews welcome.**


	2. What We Have

**Disclaimer: Characters owned by Messrs Moffatt, Gatiss and the BBC. I don't own any of it, except maybe the idea for the story, etc. etc. etc., no infringement of copyright intended, no money being made, etc, etc. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental. **

**_I'm a bit late with this one but didn't get my lovely beta, Krekta, to check this until last night. Thanks to her for this._  
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**Warning: Adult language in this chapter and mild relationship issues. **

_**What We Have…**_

"I can't believe I'm going to miss it." John lay back against the hospital pillows, eyes narrowed and mouth set in a grim line. Sherlock sat nearby, observing the frustrated tension in the set of John's jaw and his drawn-down brows.

"You could still watch it on television," Sherlock offered, despite understanding that to John that would be less than second best.

"Not the same, Sherlock. You should know that."

"Well, it isn't your fault that your appendix decided to burst yesterday. At least you'll be alright now. I have to admit, you had me worried for a while. I was quite impressed with Lestrade. He got us to A&E quite fast."

"A police car will do that, Sherlock."

"I've never been in a police car with its sirens going like that. I had no idea that Greg was such a good driver." John smiled to note the almost childish glee in Sherlock's voice. He sounded like a excited little kid at the memory of the mad emergency dash through London rush hour traffic. John had realised that the growing pain in his belly was potentially dangerous as Sherlock was casually deducing Lestrade's crime scene. Greg had been amazing though. He hadn't waited for the ambulance to arrive, citing that it was probably as quick to use a squad car and promptly got behind the wheel.

"He's a policeman who happens to be trained in pursuit driving. Of course he's good at it," John said.

"I must admit you had me worried when you said it had stopped hurting."

"Yes, well, you weren't the only one. Sometimes ignorance is bliss." _When you are a doctor, you know the consequences of a burst appendix_, John thought. _Not a pretty scenario._

"Is it? I haven't found that to be particularly true." Sherlock frowned. Usually he hated ignorance with a passion. He had to understand the far end of everything; always supposing it pertained to a case.

"Look, why don't you get off home," John suggested. "You should get back on that case. Greg will need you."

"Nonsense, John. I want to be here, with you. The case comes a poor second to your welfare. You're looking a little peaky. Shall I get the nurse?"

"No, Sherlock. I just need sleep. Would you shut up for a while and let me rest ? Please? I'm still a bit woozy from the anaesthetic..."

"Of course, John. I'll sit here and watch over you." Sherlock did just that, wondering whether John would even be awake on the morrow to watch the parade down Whitehall on television. He hadn't missed attending since he got back from Afghanistan, although last year Sherlock's best efforts at giving him a better view nearly ended in disaster. _Mycroft actually made sure everything worked out well though,_ Sherlock thought grudgingly, watching John drift in a warm drug-induced doze.

**0o0o0o0o0**

Sherlock was, surprisingly, still there when John woke up, laptop on his knees, tapping away in a frenzy. He looked up at John as the doctor's eyes opened sleepily. "Did I wake you?" Sherlock enquired, voice pitched low.

"No. I'm surprised to find you still here, that's all."

"Why wouldn't I be? I did say I would stay."

"Yes, you did, but there's a case. Isn't there?"

"Pft. Boring. Too easy. It was the husband. I emailed Greg with my findings an hour ago."

"I've been out for an hour?"

"No, you've been out for two, I only worked it out an hour ago." Sherlock looked up as the door opened to admit a small blond nurse who looked about fifteen. John smiled but then grimaced in sudden discomfort.

"Now then, Doctor Watson, how are we feeling?"

"Ah, hello, nurse. I'm not feeling too bad actually. A little tender but nothing I can't handle. Any chance of being discharged?"

"Not until Monday, now. The doctor in charge will need to sign you out as I'm sure you know. You need to stay with us a while though, just to make sure you're responding to treatment. A burst appendix can have complications, but it's no use me telling you that. Sounds like I'm teaching my grandmother to suck eggs."

"Looks like you're stuck for the weekend then," Sherlock commiserated. "Would you like me to see if Mycroft can intervene?"

"You'd ask your brother for a favour for me? I'm not sure I want to be the cause of you being indebted to your brother for anything."

"He owes _me_, not the other way around. He still owes me a favour from the last time I got him results on that case of that missing General."

"Still going to miss the parade. It'll be the first year I've missed it completely. I was invited to lay a wreath at the regimental garden of rest this year as well. We lost six men over the last twelve months. I wanted to help remember them."

"A wreath won't bring them back, John."

"It's a mark of respect." John muttered pointedly. He sighed deeply. He wondered if Sherlock would ever learn.

"I'll be back in a moment. Call of nature," Sherlock explained and left the room. The call to Mycroft didn't take long and his brother was actually only too pleased to arrange matters. It might require working on some case or other for his brother in the near future, but Sherlock wasn't too worried. Mycroft usually only gave him interesting things to work on. When he got back, Sherlock wasn't sure whether to tell John about the arrangements but John was asleep so that settled that as far as Sherlock was concerned. He wasn't about to wake his best friend for something he would find out soon anyway so he simply sat back to wait.

**0o0o0o0o0**

"Doctor Watson?" John roused from a pleasant doze to see the night sister looming over him. "It's alright, Doctor. I'm sorry to wake you, but you're being transferred."

"Transferred? Where?" John's eyes slid across the where Sherlock was sitting with a smirk on that pretty face, his generous mouth curved in a frankly self-satisfied smile.

"To a private hospital," the sister was saying. "The ambulance is downstairs waiting. I'll send someone to get you prepped for travelling. I have the paperwork signed and ready."

"Sherlock, what have you done?"

**0o0o0o0o0**

Sherlock oversaw the transfer personally, sitting in the ambulance with John as they ferried him the relatively short distance to the comfort of a private room in a very private hospital. Understandably Mycroft had arranged for a bed in the same hospital the Royal family used, although it was by happy coincidence used by military officers as well. For once Sherlock could not fault Mycroft's choice and considered it more than appropriate. John would fit in well. The journey was quick, which was a mercy because John was aching by the time they arrived.

"Good evening, Captain Watson. I'm Sister Graham," the nursing sister said as John was wheeled out of the lift by the EMTs. "Welcome to King Edward VII Hospital. We'll have you comfortable in a jiffy. Now," she turned her attention on Sherlock. "Your husband will be fine, Mr Holmes. Can I ask you to stay here while we just get him comfortable and settled and then you can come right in. Nurse Blake will get you refreshments while you wait." Sherlock nodded, and grasped John's hand for a moment, his demeanor altered dramatically.

"Thank you, Sister," Sherlock said and allowed his bottom lip to tremble just a little before turning it into a brave smile, and, bending down, he dropped a kiss on his—somewhat surprised—husband's cheek. "I'll be with you soon," he said softly.

"If you wish, you can use our wifi facilities in the lounge area to contact your brother, Mr Holmes. He asked me to tell you he would appreciate it if you could let him know you'd both arrived safely." Sherlock nodded and squeezed John's shoulder. Then the porter wheeled John into his room.

"Oh, my god..." John muttered. The room was palatial, more like a hotel room with a hospital bed in it. In fact there were two beds, although one was a normal single on the other side of the room. There was an enormous flat-screen television on the wall opposite the hospital-style bed, built in wardrobes and storage, and an en-suite bathroom which looked more like a wet-room, the glimpse John got of it as he passed. The curtains were heavy and the decor was tastefully restful. He was transferred into bed, settled by two pretty nurses who fussed over his every need and made sure his pain medication was adequate and that he was comfortably propped on pillows before leaving him alone.

The sister appeared with a doctor in tow a few minutes later. "Captain Watson? I'm Peter Wells," the doctor introduced himself. "I gather your appendix has been removed, emergency surgery wasn't it?"

"Yesterday, yes. It burst before I could reach hospital."

"Nasty business, but I don't doubt you'll be fine. I've checked your antibiotics and been in touch with the doctors at Bart's. There's no reason not to continue as they began, so we'll manage your pain medication and continue with the same regime. If you don't mind, I'll give you the once over and then I'll let you get some rest." He very thoroughly checked his patient over, murmuring conversationally the while. "We have you listed as Captain Watson. May I enquire which service?"

"5th Northumberland Fusiliers," John replied readily. "Although I was invalided out a few years ago. Afghanistan."

"Ah, so you were wounded?"

"Yes. Left shoulder. Shot in the back."

"May I see?"

John nodded. "Of course."

Peter regarded the scar, gentle fingers probing. "It doesn't cause you any problems now?"

"No, very little. Aches in cold or damp weather, but that's it."

"Good. Well, it looks like that's the best you're going to get. Whoever did the repair was good."

"A colleague, Doctor James. She was, very good."

"Well, you can rest assured she did a very neat job there."

"Good to know." John forced a smile. Cheryl James was another casualty, only she hadn't been so lucky. A SAM* had destroyed the helicopter that was taking her on an evac mission. There had been no survivors of that one. She had been one of the regiment's losses last year.

"Well," the doctor was saying. "I'll let you get some rest now. We'll let your husband back in to see you. Is he staying the night?"

"Um... I'm not sure..."

"You live in Baker Street I see, so he wouldn't be far, but if he would prefer to stay he can. Is he very worried about you? Sister Harrington said she thought he was a little upset."

"Well, I was able to tell him the basics of it, so he understands, but... you know...We've not been together long," John lied, keeping up the front.

Peter nodded, his smile sympathetic. "Well, I'll tell him he can come back in. Seeing you awake should allay his fears but if you need help, let Sister know. If you need anything the nurses showed you where the call button is, I presume."

John nodded. "Yes, they did."

"Anything at all, Dr. Watson, just ask. I'll see you in the morning."

"Goodnight, doctor."

Moments later Sherlock dashed in and came to a halt, a smirk on his lips again. John sighed.

"So, did _you_ tell them I was your husband?"

"I think that was Mycroft's doing. At least it smoothed the way. They won't try to stop me seeing you and staying if they think we're married."

"Frankly, I'm amazed that you want to bother. You'll get bored."

"Bored? With you? I hardly think so, John." Sherlock's voice dropped a little deeper, if that was possible. "I came back, didn't I? I came back to you. Not bored, you see. Never with you."

John wasn't quite sure what to say to that. He had known it, really, but Sherlock had this way of taking things for granted and glossing over any remotely difficult issues-such as those involving emotions-in favour of continuing where he left off. "I rather like it, actually," John said softly.

Sherlock stopped as if poleaxed. "What?"

"I said, I rather like it."

"I know...I mean... why?"

"Why? Because I do, that's why."

"No, why do you like it?"

"I don't have a reason, you prat. I just do. I... like us being together. I like that you can stay with me."

"Oh."

"Look, Sherlock, just because I like it, doesn't mean I want to run off and get married. We're two blokes, for goodness' sake. Neither of us is good at discussing how we feel. Besides, you're married to your work and I'm not gay. We're best friends. We're almost family, we've been through so much together. Why on earth wouldn't I like it that nobody tries to stop us sticking together through this?"

"I see." Sherlock's voice was smaller than normal. He tried to dislodge the lump in his throat. John actually wanted him there, with him. He looked comfortable, content, despite the necessarily intrusive hospital accoutrements of drip feed and drain line that were physical reminders to Sherlock's eyes that at the moment John was a patient and recovering from surgery. It made Sherlock's sides ache to keep the sudden uncharacteristic surge of emotion at bay. He sat down on one of the very comfortable chairs near the bed, closed his eyes and steepled his hands.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" John's voice grounded him, calmed him and reminded him that the man was alive and recovering and near.

"Yes, I'm fine."

"You're a bad liar," John said with a smile. "What's wrong? Have I said something...?"

"No, no," Sherlock lied again.

"_Sherlock_?" John's tone of voice was loaded with warning. Sherlock's eyes came up to meet John's and he was rendered mute by what he saw. "We'll talk about this tomorrow," John said gently. "Right now, I need rest. Apparently you are welcome to stay here. But we're a stone's throw from Baker Street. They'll call a cab for you if you'd rather go home."

"I want to stay," Sherlock admitted softly. "I'll go tell the nurses."

"Okay. Look, I like it that you want to stay, okay?"

"John?" Sherlock paused in the door and turned back. "What is it that we have, exactly, you and I?" The pose was blindingly reminiscent of their first meeting, when Sherlock had paused in the door, leaned back around and said "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street..." John swallowed, struck by how much had changed between them, as well as how much hadn't.

"I dunno, love. Something..." John frowned and shook his head a little. "Look, I'll talk to you about this tomorrow. It's getting late and I need to sleep. Go speak to the Sister."

**0o0o0o0o0**

Sherlock spent the night watching John's sleeping face from his position in the single bed across the room. For once, John's sleep was peaceful, deep and nightmare-free. That had been one reason for Sherlock's decision to stay. Something in him had balked at the thought of John suffering a nightmare in an unfamiliar place, waking to strangers instead of his flatmate. Sherlock himself managed a few hours, although he was up before dawn, staring out of the window at the street below, listening to the night sounds of his city. It grounded him, second only to his violin for anchoring him in the present, soothing his mind and body with its familiar rhythm. He paced the room slowly for a while, and then went in search of coffee as dawn broke. The nurses obligingly helped with that, furnishing him with proper coffee instead of the ever-present instant stuff the NHS seemed to thrive on. Yet another reason to commend Mycroft's choice of medical establishment. He took it back to John's room, perching on a chair and sipping it while watching the world outside come awake.

Later, Sherlock lay on his bed thinking, turning over events in his mind, replaying things they had said to each other. He loved John; that much was certain. As far as he could love, always supposing he understood the emotion. He also knew without doubt that John loved him back. Whether they were a couple was a debatable point. He rolled off the bed and went to shower, dressing again before John woke and perching himself to watch television. He would wake John in time to see the parade and the two minute silence. John would want to observe that much, even if he couldn't be there.

A knock heralded the morning shift of nurses and Sherlock smiled at them as John roused at their bustle. "Good morning, Doctor. Morning, Mr. Holmes," they chorused, busying themselves about the place, opening the blinds, tidying things up and checking John's condition. "Breakfast will be along for you both shortly. You're on fluids for now, doctor." John nodded. He had known he would be, at least until they were sure any infection had gone and his wounds had healed.

Sherlock frowned. "I don't want anything," he muttered to John after the nurses had gone.

"So don't have anything. You don't have to eat, but it would do you good. You're not on a case."

"I'm looking after you though. I don't want to be impaired."

"You are not looking after me, the nurses are. You _can_ eat, love."

"You did it again."

"Did what again?"

"You called me love," Sherlock stated.

"Oh, sorry. It's just an endearment. If you don't like it, I'll stop."

"No, I never said I didn't like it, just... that you've done it twice." Sherlock frowned. "Why?"

"Because you're a close friend?"

Sherlock huffed and switched the television on. "I thought you might want to watch the parade and observe the two minute silence today? Even if you can't be there?"

"What? Oh, yes, thanks. I would. Poor second, but it'll have to do. I should text people, let them know I won't be there."

"Already done. I accessed your phone and your email list and sent messages to those people I thought were key, asked them to pass the news on. I may have let on where you were..."

John was shaking his head. "You're impossible, you know that?"

A knock on the door interrupted them. "Come in?" Sherlock called after glancing at John and seeing his nod. The door opened and a messenger came in with a basket of flowers.

"Doctor Watson?" he asked and John raised a hand. "These are yours, sir. Where shall I put them?"

"Oh, anywhere, thanks."

Sherlock retrieved the card and said "These are from Mycroft. _Get well soon, regards, MH_. Christ, he's not sending a text."

John laughed then grimaced. "Ouch, that hurts. Don't make me laugh, okay?" Sherlock smiled and said nothing.

There was a second knock at the door a few minutes later. This time there was another bouquet of flowers with a card from Greg Lestrade. A third and a fourth arrangement arrived over the next half-hour and the place began to resemble a florist's. The third proved to be from Harry and the fourth from John's army mates, tumbling through the door with scant ceremony about ten minutes into the television coverage of the event.

"Bloody traffic," Madoc complained.

"Anybody would think there was something special on," Findlay Murray added with a chuckle.

"Blame Murray," Alex Mitchinson said. "He wanted to stop at Tesco's for the beer."

"Well, we needed something to toast the poor buggers with," Murray complained and threw himself into a vacant chair.

"I feel like a fucking wanker with these," Madoc brandished the flowers. "Mitch insisted we get 'em, the poofter."

"It's traditional, like the grapes and the choccies," Alex protested, grinning widely. "Besides, I can't resist the chance to make you look like a wanker. That's traditional too." He avoided the swipe Madoc aimed at the back of his head and fished in the Tesco's bag, handing the grapes and chocolates to John. He tossed the offending six-pack to Murray who caught it deftly and levered one free of the plastic and cracked the ring-pull with a hiss. Alex then handed their fallen comrade a rather large and rather rude card of a big breasted nurse in skimpy uniform carrying an oversized thermometer and a dangerously large hypodermic. It declared for all to see that Nurse Nightly would be only too happy to sooth his fevered brow with her equipment. John shook his head with a grin and guessed that Jack Madoc had been the one to choose that.

John eventually pulled rank and ordered them to settle down so they wouldn't miss the march down Whitehall and the wreath laying at the Cenotaph. When everybody was settled, John looked around him and wondered at the way fate played out. He was lying comfortably in a private room, his needs catered for; his best mates with him, watching the parade live on TV. As outcomes went, it could have been a lot worse and had turned out much, much better than he had hoped for. When it came to the two minutes, the whole of London seemed to fall silent, the men in the room gathering closer around John's bed. When it ended, Sherlock was the first to intone a name.

"Clive Lancaster," he said softly.

Surprised, John added "Cheryl James". Madoc, Murray and Mitchinson all intoned their own additions until the list covered some twenty names. Murray handed Sherlock a beer and John had to make do with fruit juice but they all drank in silent salute to their fallen comrades.

"Who was Clive Lancaster?" John asked afterward.

"Journalist," Sherlock said economically.

"The one the Taliban executed last February?" Madoc asked.

Sherlock nodded. "He and I were at Cambridge together. He helped me with a case a while ago. We were not friends but... he deserved respect. He was reporting on the plight of orphans in Afghanistan when he and an aid worker were taken." Sherlock bowed his head. "He wasn't strictly military, I'm sorry if it wasn't appropriate."

"That doesn't matter," John replied, quick to reassure his friend. "What matters is that you remembered him. It gives them all dignity. He might not have served but he was in a war zone, serving in his own way."

"Dignity and honour," Madoc added, raising his beer can.

"I can't remember the name of the aid worker." Sherlock sounded worried. "That isn't right, is it, John? I should remember. He has as much right to be remembered…"

"Well, you remembered Clive's name," John said.

"That's a bit not good though, John. Why should he not be remembered as well?" Sherlock protested.

John gazed at him and smiled, revising his opinion. Maybe Sherlock had learned something after all.

"Rory Conlan," Murray said into the silence that had fallen on the room.

"Pardon?" John frowned.

"That was the aid worker's name, Rory Conlan. I Googled it on the i-phone." Murray waggled his phone in the air.

"In which case," John said, holding his hand toward Sherlock, palm up, indicating for him to speak.

Sherlock nodded and caught on. "Rory Conlan," he murmured gently. "Lest we forget."

"Lest we forget," the other men intoned and they all raised their drinks again.

"Now, lads," John said gently. "I'm sorry about this but I'm knackered and they'll shout at me if you stay too long."

"That's okay mate. We were just off so we can catch a pub and get some grub. You'll be okay?"

"Yeah, sound," John reassured. "I have a good nurse." He cast a swift look at Sherlock but the man didn't see the exchange. "Take care, lads." Each man came to grip John's hand in parting, smiling and wishing him luck. "See you round." He watched them go with something like regret but he was quite glad they hadn't stayed longer. Sherlock came over and studied him.

"You've overtaxed yourself," he observed. "Close your eyes and rest. You don't want them to keep you here longer than necessary, do you?"

"Hell, no. You might as well get some rest too, okay? You could call home for a change of clothes."

Sherlock retreated to his own bed. "I'll be here when you wake."

John nodded and settled down, closing his eyes. "Sherlock?" he asked suddenly, eyes flying open again.

"Yes, John?"

"What we have," he said, cautiously. He watched Sherlock put his head on one side and regard him with curiosity in his verdigris eyes. He reminded John of a Gyrfalcon he had once seen on the arm of a Pashtun in Afghanistan. The beautiful bird had swiveled its head to regard him with curiosity in its amazingly piercing eyes. "It's _ours_," John said simply. "I can't name it, not yet. I'd just like it to continue as it is. It's…well… it's just _us_, Sherlock. Could we do that, do you think?" John regarded his friend with a soft smile.

"And you're not yet completely comfortable with _us_, are you?" Sherlock suggested.

"I'm not exactly_ un_comfortable, just…"

"I understand, John. Long held beliefs and patterns of behavior are very hard to break. They require remodeling, a different outlook. You're already so different from the man I first met all that time ago, that someday..." Sherlock's voice tailed off, his hopeful gaze locked on John's.

"Someday," John echoed. "Things will maybe evolve between us into something more. Besides, I don't think that man you knew exists anymore."

"He died, John. You changed, you left him behind. No bad thing, although he is still part of you. You shouldn't forget him completely. He's the reason why you're here."

John smiled, nodded. "Then there's only one thing you can say to that," he said with a smile. "Lest we forget."

**Reviews welcome as always. I hope you enjoy reading. **

**(*SAM = surface to air missile for those of you who are not familiar with military stuff. EMTs = Emergency Medical Technicians who drive ambulances in the UK and ferry patients, at least, I think EMTs do patient transfer. Apologies if not. I'll go away and check)**


	3. Breaking With Tradition

**The usual disclaimer applies. Characters do not belong to me, etc.**

_Apologies because I loaded this on AO3 but not here. I'm gradually transfering my stuff over there, but will leave things up here for you to find me.  
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**_Lest We Forget III - Breaking with Tradition._**

For once in his life, post Afghanistan, John broke with tradition. For once he had no desire to attend the marches, the parades, the Cenotaph or any wreath laying. John was planning something quieter, more intimate. Just him and his best friend. Him and Sherlock, together for Remembrance Day.

It did not matter that his best friend had died in the worst way possible. No matter that John had witnessed the cruelest joke ever played or experienced the most helpless feeling of his entire life (and that including watching friends bleed out on the battlefield or on the operating table when there was nothing more he could do). No matter that he had been forced to watch someone actually take their own life. _Something_ had made his friend act like that. Something had forced his hand. John had to believe it because nothing else made sense. No matter what the cause, Sherlock would remain his best friend, the person he loved more than anybody else in this world, even if he wasn't there to experience it.

"John, mate, what you doing for Remembrance Day this year?" Mitch asked when he phoned John at the beginning of September. The doctor rolled his eyes. Trust the logistics expert to plan ahead.

"Nothing, Mitch. Sorry, I'm not going to be here."

"Not going to be...Why the hell not? You never miss…"

"Visiting a mate in the US. I'll be away a couple of weeks." That had seemed to satisfy the man, especially when John said the mate was an ex-army buddy.

"John, man. We meeting up on the 11th then? What about a bevvy at the pub?" Findlay Murray called a couple of weeks later. He sounded slightly forced, as though someone had put him up to calling.

"Sorry, Fin. Not going to be here. Didn't Mitch tell you?" _Or did he decide to see if I'd forget and tell you a different story?_ John told him about his plans to visit Mike in Maine; Mike Gracella, out in Portland. Didn't Murray remember him, from Sangin? No? Oh well, he remembered Murray alright… Somehow, Murray bought the story and left him alone after that.

Madoc called last, quizzing John the same way. He also displayed incredulity and then annoyance and then disbelief. None of it made a bit of difference. Jack was also firmly rebuffed.

Now each of his mates knew what John's problem was. None of them had been living under a rock after all, and each one knew John very well indeed. Thus they did not buy his excuse that he was visiting the US. They knew a politely phrased rejection when they heard it, but they did not push things, realising that John Watson could not be pushed, deceived or cajoled into anything. However, each man knew their friend would either come out of it in his own time, or not, and more than one ex-comrade had gone that way.

If there was one thing John could rely on, it was his mates; to leave him alone as long as he stayed relatively sane or come running if John displayed any danger signs. In a new world where everything John had relied on had crumbled, knowing his mates were there in the background stopped him taking a nosedive in front of a tube train or jumping from a bridge. Despite rebuffing their well-meaning attempts to make sure he was safe and sane, their care was a slim lifeline but it was there.

**0o0o0o0o0o0**

As the day dawned, John was all for staying in bed. He was just weary, tired of the everyday fight to maintain sanity and keep his head above water. However, John Watson being John Watson he couldn't and wouldn't ignore the date. So he rose early, then showered, dressed and breakfasted quickly, aiming to be out of London before the crowds choked the tube or the buses. He was aiming to go alone, wanting to stay solitary. His plan, though, reckoned without the intervention of the annoying presence of the elder Holmes.

A sleek dark car was waiting by the kerbside as John exited 221b. He had eventually returned to the familiar flat with all his best friend's things in, left as it had been, save for a clean fridge and an empty bedroom. John knew Mycroft was discreetly maintaining payments on the flat but said nothing about it. If Mycroft chose to expunge any guilt he might feel by making things easy for John, John was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He neither demanded acknowledgement of the donation nor did he force John to put up with his presence so John left well enough alone. However, it was obvious that he had been unable to stay away on this, the most poignant of days.

The immaculate form that was Mycroft Holmes was leaning against the car, which for him could be classed as a casual pose despite resembling a GQ photoshoot. He was toying with his umbrella as if he belonged there. He probably did, John thought. The British Government did have a right to be standing on the roadside of a London street, after all.

"Mycroft…" John stopped in front of the man and huffed an irritated sigh.

"Please, John," Mycroft wouldn't meet his eyes. "I wish you would allow me this one small gesture." He looked hesitant, obviously expecting a rebuff, but honestly John could not find it in his heart. He sighed again but it lacked rancour.

"I'm going to the grave and nowhere else. Today…" He could not go on. His voice failed him. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I always ho...honour my...fallen comrades, and...and he is no different."

"I do understand. I had anticipated as much and I am also heading there, so if you wouldn't mind company, we can share a car. I also thought a spot of lunch afterward but if you want to return home that can be arranged. However, there are a few people who would like to accompany us as well, should you be agreeable."

John realised Mycroft wasn't alone in the car. He sighed when Findlay Murray leaned out the door and sketched a wave. Behind him, Alex Mitchinson leaned to give him a thumbs up. On the other side, John could see Jack Madoc in the shadows purposefully keeping back. "They contacted me, via a roundabout route which was frankly frighteningly ingenious, and asked me if I still had contact with you. I had to say no, because we have not spoken in a long time, but they were...very persuasive…"

"Told him I'd fucking break his legs unless he arranged this visit…" Madoc said. He wasn't joking, even though his tone was light. John knew him well enough to realise he meant every word.

"Since when did you let some Scouse wanker intimidate you, Mycroft?" John wanted to know.

"Oh, never, John," Mycroft replied airily. "However, he also told me you were avoiding making plans for today and that set my alarm bells ringing. I admit I was more worried by what they told me concerning your good self rather than being in the least intimidated by their empty threats."

"Fuck off, they were not empty," Madoc growled.

"I do assure you, while it may be that you are convinced of your own intentions, I am not intimidated in the least. Your words concerning John's welfare, however, did disturb me and for that small motivation I am most grateful, which is why you still have your liberty following a tirade that should have earned you immediate incarceration pending investigation…" Mycroft smiled coldly, then turned to John with rather more warmth. "I am glad that you are still with us, John, you have to believe me."

John regarded him for a moment, then allowed a small smile. "I do," he said, gently. "One thing I do know, he wouldn't have wanted me to remain enemies with you. So…" John extended his hand. Mycroft hesitated before shaking it but when he did it was sincere. "Shall we?" John indicated the car.

"By all means. I have taken the liberty to arrange some lunch for us at the Oak and Crown in the village, but if things get too much for you, please feel free to let me know..."

"No, that's...that's very generous, thank you. I'm sure I'll be fine." John got in and sat back as Mycroft slid in to the warm interior of the vehicle after him and rapped on the glass screen between them and the driver. The car began to move and they settled in to a surprisingly comfortable silence.

The graveyard was full of people. John frowned and held back but Mycroft shook his head. "Not my doing," he reassured. "There is a war memorial here, and I have no influence to stop the proceedings," he said. "Nor should I. This is a local event and my ancestors, mine and Sherlock's, served in all the major wars." He sounded quite proud. "Our great Grandfather served in Bomber Command during World War Two, his father in the Royal Flying Corps during the First World War. Great, Great Grandfather on mother's side served in the Boer War and in India. I assure you I am the last person to interfere in the proper show of respect at these gatherings."

Mycroft did lead them a circuitous route down the paths though, circumventing the small knot of men and women sporting medals and bearing poppy wreaths who were gathered around the simple stone memorial. He raised a respectful hand to them as he passed. The leaden sky overhead was still dry but depressing as they wove their way along the cinder paths between dense clumps of yews, finding the spot under the trees where Sherlock's black granite gravestone was located. Madoc and the rest hung back, silently giving John his space. Even Mycroft indicated he should proceed without them, and John nodded gratefully and limped the last of the way there.

Madoc watched his mate go, a frown pulling his brows together. "Bad business," he said, voice low. Murray nodded.

"Really thought he'd found a reason to stay with us," the Scot murmured sadly.

"What do you reckon?" Mitch asked. "Will he stick around now his best mate's gone?"

"No idea, Mitch, no fucking idea," Madoc said gloomily, catching Mycroft's pained expression. "Sorry, mate. I know he was your brother but…"

"It's quite alright," Mycroft replied, cutting him off. "I too worry for the good doctor. I am keeping him under close scrutiny but I fear even my attempts to keep him safe could amount to nothing if John is determined. I hope for all our sakes that I can react quickly enough if such an incident presents itself." He watched Murray wander off, something taking his interest a little way off, then dragged his attention back to the forlorn figure who had by now reached the graveside. "Dr Watson is nothing if not stubborn," he observed. "If he gets an idea in his head, then nothing will dissuade him. We can but hope he finds something to...give him hope, as it were."

_I was so alone and I owe you so much…_ John came to a halt before the stone, the words he had uttered the last time he had visited still echoing in his mind. _Just one more miracle…Don't. Be. Dead._ He bowed his head and sighed heavily. _That hadn't happened, had it? _

"So, still...dead then," he murmured, conversationally. "I dunno, Sherlock, you're being a right git, keeping me waiting." John sighed heavily. "I should stop coming here, you know. I mean… things are not going to get better are they? You're gone. For whatever stupid reason, and it was stupid, Sherlock, nobody will convince me otherwise, no matter how noble you thought you were being. You didn't have to...to jump…" John's voice faltered. He breathed deeply again and sniffed. "I miss you, you daft sod. Come home, please? I'm...I'm just not sure how long...how long I can…" He had to stop. His eyes were welling and it was painful, damn it, physically painful to say the words. Abruptly he laid the flowers he had brought-he had made Mycroft stop at the florist's shop in the village-down on the damp ground and stood, straightening his back and shoulders. He saluted smartly. Turning on his heel, he walked back to where the lads were standing waiting for him.

Murray had wandered away from the small knot of men, his attention caught by sudden movement under a nearby tree. A dark shadow passed just beyond the tree's trunk, through the undergrowth. Murray stalked closer, ears straining for any indication that his quarry had seen him. When the hind end of a deer flashed through the greenery beyond the tree, its brown hide almost hidden by the dappled shadows of leaves and branches, white tail upended in alarm, Murray was unsurprised. He grinned, glad to see life in such a place of death. He stopped beneath the low bows, swallowed by the shadows beneath them, watching the place where the deer had gone. Pausing to look around and assess his surroundings, Murray realised that he could see the grave from his position but was shielded by the bushes in front of him. John could not see him. His foot cracked on something and he looked down, surprised to see a large amount of cigarette butts on the grass. He sniffed the air, the unmistakable aroma of smoke meeting his nostrils. Someone had been there recently, very recently. Kids probably, bunking off and hiding from the parents; it was probably a known spot to grab a quick fag without being found out. Murray grinned, remembering doing the same thing himself. He was about to leave when he saw the thing he had stepped on, a bright red pencil. He picked it up, realising that it was only the blunt end that had snapped. The two parts were still connected, but slightly bent. He pocketed it and went back to the others, where John was now waiting.

"Right, lads, we ready?" John asked and received nods of agreement, so he lead them all toward the memorial. The small knot of veterans had laid their wreaths, and were listening to the Vicar voicing something appropriate. The foursome stopped some way off, but still garnered curious looks from one or two of the veterans, but Madoc ignored them as the four friends gathered in their small knot. This time they all waited for John to begin. He glanced around at them, one after the other, then took a deep breath. "Sherlock Holmes," he said, without a trace of a tremor in his voice.

"Will Morstan," Jack said. "Tom Heaney, Dan Hereford."

"Liam Conlan," Findlay added.

"Alex Fairburn," Mitch offered. They went through their list then, adding names from years previous, remembering them all. Mycroft stood by, respectfully silent. When the last name was said, the church clock struck the hour. Eleven o'clock. Madoc snapped "Atten...shun!" Each of them came smartly to attention as if the years hadn't intervened, and they all saluted, then stood to observe the two minute silence. "At ease!" Madoc ordered when the allotted time had passed and they all stood down, rejoining Mycroft who lead the way silently out of the graveyard. The veterans watched them go.

The pub was filled with patrons, most notably more of the veterans from the churchyard as well as the obvious regulars. John elbowed his way to the bar and caught the bartender's eye, asking if there was a table booked in the name of Holmes. He smiled and nodded and lead them through to the dining room and showed them to their seats.

"Your ritual is rather poignant, John," Mycroft murmured. "But very fitting, all the same. I am...touched that you honoured Sherlock so. He wasn't a soldier, after all."

"Mycroft, you once said to me that most people blunder around London and all they see are streets and shops and cars. You said that if I went with Sherlock that I would see the battlefield and I did. In his own way, Sherlock_ was_ a soldier. No matter his motives, he still fought for the truth. He still solved crimes and combated enemies, just like I did. I just did it with a scalpel and a gun, he did it with his mind, but nevertheless, he deserved to be included in our...ritual. He should be remembered for the man he was, and he was not a fraud."

"I know how hard you campaigned to make the police review the cases and find him not guilty, and you won," Mycroft said. "I might have helped a little but the motivation was yours. For that alone you are to be commended. You do him honour with every breath you take, Doctor. Take comfort in that."

The lunch was a generous one, although they didn't speak much. Other than Jack inviting John to stay with him for a few days he and Fin and Mitch chatted among themselves. John wasn't in the mood for conversation and Mycroft was obviously not up to his usual erudite offerings. When one of the veterans from the church appeared by their table as they were finishing their coffee, it was Jack who acted as their spokesman.

"Scuse me for interuptin', lads," the old man said, well-polished medals in a bright row across his left breast. "I 'ope I'm not disturbin' you, but we saw you at the graveyard. The lads want to know what service you're in and I drew the short straw."

Jack grinned. "Were," he replied. affably. "We're all retired now. John and Findlay there were invalided out a couple of years ago, Mitch and I decided to retire this year. We're all late of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

The old man nodded. "John Campbell, 4th Battalion, Royal Artillery. Me and the lads would like to know if we can invite you for a drink? All soldiers together?"

Jack smiled. "Jack Madoc," he said as they shook hands. "Pleased to meet you, sir. We'd be happy to join you, wouldn't we, lads?" He glanced around and saw the agreement on everyone's faces and stood, following the old gent back to where his cronies were gathered around the bar. They spent the next hour absorbed in conversation and only when Mycroft tapped his watch at John did they down the dregs of their pints and make ready to leave.

"You've got an email address, right?" Murray dragged his pockets for something to write with and found the pencil he had stepped on. He grabbed a napkin from the bar and wrote the email address down that the man he had been chatting to had just given him. He thanked the old man-Albert-and stuffed the paper back in his pocket, but when he looked up he found John was staring at him.

"Fin, where did you get that?"

"Get what?"

"That pencil…" John's voice was shaking.

"Why? I mean, it is nay special…"

"Where did you get it?" John's voice sounded urgent.

"In the graveyard, by the tree we were standing next to while we were waiting for you."

"The…?" John grabbed for the pencil and stared at it.

"Look, there were a lot of cigarette butts around, it was a den of sorts...Christ, John, it's just something some kid dropped…"

"No, it isn't." John was scrutinising the pencil, carefully. "I'd know that pencil anywhere...You don't believe me? You think I'm going nuts? Okay then, see that burn mark? Acid. He used it to poke at something in one of his experiments. It's a 2b, Sherlock's favoured grade of graphite, he says nothing else makes enough mark and anything softer wears down too fast. The brand, only bought in a small art shop around the corner from where we live. The end is stained brown and I'll bet good money it shows up as blood…"

"Blood?"

"Yes, blood. Sherlock stabbed someone with it once. It was the only weapon he had on him...It's a sign...he dropped this for me…"

"John…" Murray was concerned. His mate was staring at the pencil feverishly. Mycroft took John's arm and propelled him gently to the car. Once inside, John looked beseechingly at the elder Holmes. "Did you know?"

"Know what, John?" Mycroft said softly. "It's a pencil. Some child probably dropped it." Mycroft's intense gaze settled on John's own. John swallowed and something unspoken passed between them. John sighed heavily and pocketed the pencil.

"Sorry...sorry, you're right…" he mumbled. "I'm...forgive me, Fin. I'm grasping at straws."

"Nay problem, laddy. Understandable. Keep the damn thing, just stay safe," he said gently. John nodded and they drove to the railway station in silence.

Once the men had gone, Mycroft turned to John. "Doctor Watson, if you will take a little advice, do not speak of this to anyone and keep your little..._momento_...safe and concealed."

"It's true then?"

"I have no idea, truly." Mycroft gripped John's shoulder firmly. John was surprised to note that his fingers were trembling slightly. "If it is, and at this moment it is only a very tenuous if, then his safety will rely on our continued silence and your continued belief in his demise. Do not do anything to compromise that, John, whatever you do. I will begin some tenuous investigations, feelers, nothing more. If this is a sign, then he will get in touch with us, not the other way around, and knowing my dear brother only when it is the absolute right time and not before. Do not expect miracles, John. Years might go by yet. You must be both patient and wary. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly," John nodded.

"How sure are you, John?"

"Around ninety eight percent?"

"Why?"

John held out the pencil. "Test the end for blood, then you'll see why. Details, Mycroft. Sherlock doesn't do things carelessly nor does he make mistakes. This wasn't dropped. He left it for me to find. He knew I'd be there today of all days."

"You're so sure."

"Yes. Test it for me, Mycroft. Find out. If that _is _blood on the end, I rest my case."

"What good would it do?"

"Yes or no, I just need to know for sure. If the answer is negative, I'll mourn him and move on. If it's positive, then I can wait, forever if need be."

"Forever is a long time, John."

"Forever is no time at all, Mycroft. Forever is what being stuck in Afghanistan feels like. This...this is merely a hiatus, nothing more."

**0o0o0o0o0o0**

His phone binged with a text alert later that evening. Whatever facilities Mycroft had access to must be 24/7 because one word sat glaring at him from the screen. John sighed softly, then let the tears fall.

**Positive. MH**


End file.
